Smoke (The Carelli Family Saga #1) - Eden Butler Page 0,1

business that his father had abandoned. He carried himself with a control that wasn’t easy to pull off—he did easier than breathing.

Moving from the back of the room, Smoke stood behind his sister, his posture relaxed, but his expression steely as he watched her turn her head toward him. Toni glanced at me once, her attention moving to the cake, then back to me like a challenge.

I wasn’t picking sides.

“Mijo,” I said to my son, bending down to his level. My heart clenched when he gave me a toothy grin, his dimples deep. I held my breath waiting for him to say something, wishing there would be a “mama” or “no,” even the slightest mutter of a noise that sounded like a word, but Mateo only smiled, reaching for me, giving a side glance at the cake resting on top of the table.

A year old now and he wasn’t speaking. Walking everywhere since he was nine months old, but he kept whatever he thought to himself.

“Maggie, he looks so cute. Don’t…” Toni started, but went quiet when Smoke moved to stand at my side.

“Jesus, Toni, let it go,” he told her.

Antonia opened her mouth, readying to level something really nasty at her big brother, so I deflected, loosening Mateo’s tie and suspenders, wiggling him out of his shirt altogether before I pushed the cake closer to him.

“Feliz cumpleaños, Mateo!” I lit the candle on his cake and began to sing.

The others joined in, their voices getting louder as they crowded around my son. Toni helped me blow out the candle and everyone clapped, their voices mixing with laughter when Mateo reached for the cake, smashing his small fingers into the icing, squeezing a fistful into his palm before he stared at it, eyes wide, fascinated. Then, he leaned forward, nose planted first into the beautiful row of blue flowers.

“That’s it! That’s how you do it,” Dante said, laughing.

After a few minutes, even Antonia cracked a smile, returning to her picture taking, seeming to forget her attitude as the baby dug into his cake.

An hour later, Mateo was snoring on Mr. Carelli’s chest, tuckered out completely from his cake and the ridiculous amount of presents he tore through.

“He’s a good boy,” Mrs. Carelli said, patting the baby’s back as we collected the plates and glasses and returned them to the kitchen. The restaurant was quiet now, with Toni and Dante secluded at the other end of the bar together and Dario outside talking to Luca on the patio. Mrs. Carelli followed my gaze and her smile dropped. “Luca works with Dimitri. We’ve known him a long time.”

“He was there the first night I met you all,” I said, remembering the Christmas Eve when Smoke found me in my idling car on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant. He’d bullied me into coming inside and the entire family hadn’t let us leave.

Then, things got a little complicated.

“He was,” Mrs. C. said, using the faucet nozzle to clear away cake from a platter before she placed it in the dishwasher. When I reached for it, meaning to take over, she gave my hand a soft tap. “He’s made mistakes. Did things he wasn’t supposed to, and Dimitri had a hard time forgiving him.”

“Did…Toni?”

The older woman schooled her expression, but I still caught the slip. There was something that reminded me of worry, maybe a little upset, that she hid as soon as it came across her face.

“That’s not my story to tell, bella…”

“What’s not?” Smoke said, walking into the kitchen.

“Nothing.” Mrs. C. turned off the water and grabbed a dishtowel before she looked up at her son. “I’ll see about your father,” she told him, and I didn’t miss the smile tugging at her mouth before she hurried from the kitchen.

“Does she know she’s not subtle?” I asked Smoke, picking up another dirty plate.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded as I cleaned, but Smoke kept his attention on me, like always. Sometimes it was nice. Sometimes that attention was like a drug I couldn’t get enough of. But not when his family was around. Not when there were too many eyes shifting in our direction.

“I think she knows what she wants and doesn’t care what anyone thinks about it.”

“And what does she want?” My shoulders tensed when Smoke licked his lips, moving his hand to rest against my hip on the counter.

“Probably things that are impossible.”

Impossible.

Smoke and I had perfected impossible.

Mrs. Carelli seemed to have expectations about us. No matter how many